The Soul of this Writer just doesn’t give a Damn during the month of November.

The primary function of quotation marks is to set off and represent exact language (either spoken or written) that has come from somebody else. The quotation mark is also used to designate speech acts in fiction and sometimes poetry.

In some styles, such as the MLA style, some longer quotations that span multiple lines shouldn’t use quotation marks. Instead, the quote should start on a new line and be indented.

Another use of quotation marks are scare quotes which are used to mean “so-called”, or to express irony.

-The Purdue OWL

Once a year I gain a year, gain an hour, and lose my shit every time people ask me if I the writer will participate in the annual November writing thing. Some letters that mean absolutely nothing to me and while I get that people need a reminder to write or in this case write with an absurd goal of word count X in time frame X I do enjoy watching those who enjoy the challenge taking up the mantle of writer…for a month.

This writer goes on hibernation during the month of November. No clue why. Happened even before the event became a thing, yet another reason why social media is losing its luster-bang out 140 characters, copy a meme, take a photo of your food (most of the time food you did nothing more than order), or post a status update for all of your followers who have nothing better to do than follow your every move, essentially vicariously living your life-and suddenly you to (two) ((too)) are a writer in the same way that anyone can open their fist hole and spew out words in an volume over conversational and in a cadence that matches something akin to music of two cats fucking and you two (too) ((TUE)) are a singer.

And all the while the world continues to burn. Ah well there will always be one last cat meme.

You might think that I am in a bad mood, no more than usual. Just tired of the now annual, “but you are a writer, why don’t you write 30,000 in a month,” bullshit. Why? Because I am a writer and I know how I writer. This writer, bangs out material for 10 months a year and for TUE (to) ((too)) takes a break. A break that has nothing to do with writers block because the writing ideas flow great, what doesn’t is the pen to paper or fingers to keys other than missives such as this where I open the top of my head and dump the contents of my brain…well more like skim the congealed fat off the soup…onto to whatever media I currently fancy which seems to be paper.

Paper just takes. Takes my ink. Takes my ideas. And paper holds. The only editing I can do to paper is scratch out the words, erase the words-but no the indentation caused through the force of my writing is still there-or crumple up the paper, the ultimate form of editing. See, I crumpled up your words and tossed them into the trash (or in my case tossed them in the direction of the trash, I am a horrible thrower of things into other things). You can’t crumple up a computer as easily or a file…although you delete…then again nothing is ever deleted forever…like herpes, pen to paper, and that one night-stand you really really wish would stop calling you…it was one night damnit.

One Night Stand with Accessories 🙂

No, not you. Some other one night stand. You know that time at the place where the thing and all of that.

What does a writer on hiatus (good word) do during apparently the only month when writers are supposed to write do? This writer reads. This writer paints. This writer jots down notes for later. This writer does not write. The soul of this writer just doesn’t give a damn during the month of November.

“Substitute ‘damn’ every time you’re inclined to write ‘very;’ your editor will delete it and the writing will be just as it should be.”

-Mark Twain

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When The Rut Is A Chasm

“The ability to speak does not make you intelligent.”

-George Lucas

Can we talk?

I’d like to think so, but I know the reality. This really is me typing for me and along the way some people stop by and read and whole lot more spammers attempt their nefarious, yet hideously stupid, plans to clog the interwebs up with shit and there are plenty of times where I look around and think to myself, maybe they have the right idea the interwebs at time do resemble a sewer system so why not clog it full of shit that nobody wants or needs unless you happen to be a Nigerian Prince, which how many of those are there? I’m going to guess not a lot, bordering on one or two, I guess I could look it up but I really don’t care because no Nigerian Prince is going swoop in on his…whatever Nigerian Princes ride on or in and save the day, not that my day needs saving, but princes saving things is what Disney taught me and Disney wouldn’t lie would they?

See I’m in a rut.

I finished Wil Wheaton’s Just a Geek and realized that I was stuck in a rut. For those interested, Just a Geek is a good book if you like reading blogs written by Wil Wheaton and to a certain degree me, seems we have or had a similar writing style. Yet if you are a me you also come to the conclusion that the book is slightly depressing because…well you too have not done much with your life despite trying or in the case of Wil Wheaton tried and succeeded.

Me…I keep trying or do I? I’m not really sure anymore, just like I still have no clue what I want to be when I grow up. This writing thing is pretty cool and I seem to have some talent for it, but then what? Write a book? That seems to be the catch all answer to the “What to do when you are a writer” question. What if and I am being serious here, see how I told you I was being serious, what if I don’t have a book in me?

What if, and pretend I did this because I did, I published five books and nobody bought a copy? Try to imagine how that fucks with that answer, because it does and I did. One book was full of naked women too…now how fucked up is that? Really fucked up.

The first four books just like Wil Wheaton’s Just a Geek, copies of my “blog” at the time, in a very similar style, although I have to say mine have a bit more humor and anger in them than his does. See I don’t have a problem writing about me here or anywhere else. Despite what you may think about the tone and structure most of what I write is about me and how I really think about things.

I tend to avoid “controversial” things such as politics, the state of the country, state of the world and recent or trending events because I am not an expert and plenty of people can voice their opinion. I don’t like opinion. However those interested, downward slope is my answer to all of the above things I don’t normally write about, hell until now never write about.

So I am down here at the bottom of this rut which as I look up is more a chasm. I need to find the thing I should be doing now in addition to the other things I should be doing…

good example, I love being a parent even when I have to yell, which I don’t like doing (Yes some of you may think I like yelling and being a dick, I don’t-sometimes messages are received clearer at volume and from someone you can despise for a bit).

I think that ends my example.

I cook (not all of the food gets eaten we are horrible with leftovers) and to be honest the amount of cooking I do in relation to the good feels I used to get is slanted in favor of I cook, they eat it, I…I don’t know what

I write this blog, but honestly blogging has not been fun for a few years. It used to be fun when I wrote about sex and lots of people talked to and with me, only one person talked at me. Here nobody…okay that is not correct my mother (who asks when Puddles and Whiskers is going to be new, I directed her to their blog), and KDaddy who always has something I find funny or insightful to say and…that’s it.

I do write this for myself, but I really enjoy when people take part. Do you want to know how people take part now, they read to see if they are in the blog and my take on the events that they were witness to…except I don’t do that very often or I embellish the events so much in the interest of storytelling to obliterate what really happened…

Why? because I got tired of people telling me the only reason they read what I wrote was to see their name in print. This isn’t print. All it took to drive that home was a former friend who asked me to include his most horrible behavior to his soon to be ex-girlfriend, because “wouldn’t that be a fun blog?” No you dick, it would not and did not and forever altered my writing on here in the same way as my family reading the blog and then attempting to confront me about the things I did…

And what does this have to do with being in a rut? I sit here, now every other day, as part of a routine, a new routine to be sure, but still a routine and I write what is on my mind, but not everything that is on my mind and I feel NOTHING.

NOTHING at all about my writing. Okay that is not true, Puddles and Whiskers gets my attention and yes I am still working on them they have their own website with art (thank you children and Chris Cortright). Everything else…not a thing…other than I hate the Geoglyphs and Alpaca’s post. I mean I love that people are learning about

  1. Geoglyphs
  2. Alpacas
  3. and the answer to an Animal Crossing puzzle that is at least five years old

But the people, numbering in the thousands, who have visited the post for that answer, never read anything else…fucking Animal Crossing…

Any who, I blather on about nothing and then move on. I no longer read my own posts unless I am having some contemplation time (read reading on the toilet) and I do that because I cannot remember what I wrote most of the time. That right there bothers me the most because I put, over the years, a lot of time and effort into this blog and yet I cannot remember most of what I wrote in the last six months or so because it was mindless drivel about a day, a thing, or an incident.

People seem to love my game reviews. I don’t. I’m not what I think of as an interesting reviewer.  I play the games. I write what happened. To me not very interesting. Thus I don’t know why people read what I write about when it comes to games. I’d like to know, but like I said somewhere up there, I get very little feedback at all

Sad thought of mine brought about by Wil Wheaton’s Just a Geek is that I miss the old days. I don’t like living in the past. I love learning from the past, but here I have been for the past few months longing for the past when I wrote about sex and people spoke to me, spoke to each other, and there was general sense of reason, belonging, and that people were reading. Nothing says people reading like someones commenting on something you wrote in the middle of a three-thousand (yes 3,000) word post on threesomes.

Now…

 

 

silence

Why don’t I write about sex? Because WordPress is run by or managed by a lot of single minded puritans who…suffice to say some reader somewhere got their nose out of joint because SEX, complained and WordPress had a field day finding sex blogs and blocking, banning, or booting them (those were some fun months)…other than that because we have not had the resources for me to start my own hosted site…

So can we talk?

“Let children read whatever they want and then talk about it with them. If parents and kids can talk together, we won’t have as much censorship because we won’t have as much fear.”

-Judy Blume

 

Dreaming of Writing

I dream of water I have to get up and use the bathroom…sheesh that was polite sounding, I have to get up to take a piss.

I dream a lot, often in color, and often about what is on my mind.

I dream a lot of writing. So much about writing that my characters are now visiting me in my dreams and telling me I should write about them. They are not polite about it at all. I wish they understood the current reality around here its not that I don’t want to write about them, I simply cannot.

There is a reason none of my characters have children, they prevent me from writing and characters from doing the things they want to do and I am not going to put children in my stories to pander to that ever so popular demographic, children. Isn’t that why Jar Jar Binks and Anakin as an emotionless child exist? I think so.

So here I am dreaming nightly of my characters unable to have the time or sanity to put them to paper or screen.  When the kids are in school, less than ten days and counting, I get something precious to me, my own time. Typically I fill my own time with some house work and a lot of writing. When the kids are at home I get enough my own time to bang out 500 words on whatever before the pestering starts.

Hardly enough time to craft a story. Thus they live in my dreams. Could be worse they could abandon me altogether. Hopefully my characters are more understanding of my writing process than my children are. Given that my characters do not interrupt me while I am writing I am thinking they do.

The other issue impeding writing is my writing space is currently home to two printers, a stack of papers…crap, just crap. In the process of getting the “last” room in the house in shape my library/game room/writing space became the holding room/junk room/wedon’tknowwhattodowiththis room. Meaning, if I want my writing space back and I do, I have to take the time to remake the room, making it the last room.

Ugh.

I count down the days, dreaming of my characters, writing in my notebook when I can, which is even funnier than trying to type. Typing it seems is a known activity. dad is typing, thus we should interrupt him. dad is using a pen in a notebook on paper…what do we do? At the start of summer I got a lot more pen and paper time than I do now; just enough to jot down a sentence or two before the pestering begins.

Puddles and Whiskers, All About The Case

Previously.

“His case?”

“Yes, his brief case,” stated Beverly Amson.

Puddles shook her head. She must be hearing things or there was a miscommunication. Puddles watched Beverly take another long sip of coffee; she did not appear upset or even concerned over her husband’s death. Composed, rational, unemotional and wearing on one hand Puddles income for an entire year, Beverly’s only concern was a brief case.

“Just so we are clear, you want to know what happened to his brief case?”

“That is correct.”

Puddles was thankful Beverly could not see her tail slashing away as her irritation with Beverly rose. Setting her paws in front of her, trying to control her urge to drum her claws, Puddles looked into Bevely Amson’s eyes hoping to see any sign of humanity. Nothing.

Sighing Puddles began, “Your husband’s brief case was carried off by the man who killed him.” Puddles paused looking for some reaction. “Whiskers chased the man with the puppet until the man jumped into a waiting taxi and escaped.”

“Did the man have the case when he jumped into the taxi.”

“I…I will check with Whiskers.” Puddles sent a text to Whiskers. “Another cup of coffee while we wait?”

Beverly looked at the cup of coffee with more emotion than Puddles had seen all meeting and then looked up at her, “No thank you.”

Whiskers replied promptly. “According to Whiskers the man had the brief case when he jumped into the taxi.”

Beverly thought for a few moments, “I need you and your associates to retreive the case for me.”

“What?”

“The job I hired your firm for is not complete.”

“Your husband is dead,” Puddles snapped back, “our case was to follow him and catch him in the act with another woman.”

“No.”

“No,” Puddles hissed.

“I hired your firm to follow Mr. Amson, gathering information on where he went and who he interacted with. You inferred I wanted to know about another woman,” Beverly shot back enunciating each word. “Thus, your job is not finished. Mr. Amson interacted with the man who killed him. That man took something that belonged to Mr. Amson. You need to find that man and the brief case.” She stood up and headed for the door, stopping as she headed out, “I expect results and updates.”

Puddles dug her claws into her side of the desk, let her tail slash through the air freely, and took a moment before cursing Beverly Amson out. Whiskers would be proud she thought, this time the client was not in the office.

[We have an issue.] Puddles texted to Whiskers and Chuck.

Puddles and Whiskers, Not NiHo’s

Previously.

With a groan, Whiskers stood up and approached Officer Chu. A brief conversation and Whiskers signaled Puddles and Chuck time to leave. Walking along the elevated walkway wageslaves avoided the three of them.

“We don’t belong here,” Chuck sighed his tail slowly waving.

“What?” Puddles snapped her tail slashed causing a passing wageslave to jump.

Pointing at another group of wageslaves walking past them, “Look they avoid us like we have something.”

“Why do you care what they do?”

Chuck thought for a moment, “I don’t.”

Puddles shook her head in disbelief. Deep in thought Whiskers missed the exchange, focusing on the details of the encounter, “He was wired,” he said out loud.

“Who was wired?” Chuck asked.

“What?” Puddles said

Snapping out of his thoughts, “The man with the puppet, he outran me like I was a kitten. He must have some augmentation.”

“It’s possible,” Puddles said thoughtfully. “What’s our next move? The client is dead.”

“That puppet was interesting,” Chuck absently said.

“That damn puppet almost killed all of us,” Puddles snapped.

Chuck glared at Puddles for a moment, “I know. That doesn’t change the fact that the puppet was interesting.”

“Whatever.”

“Give it a rest,” Whiskers ordered. “I need some food and coffee before I decide what we do next.”

Not NiHo’s

“It’s not NiHo’s that’s for sure,” Chuck commented as he looked around the noodle shop.

“No it’s not,” Puddles responded. “Look at this menu, where is the spicy ham?”

With a wave through the holo-menu, closing the menu and a sigh Whiskers sat back in the padded chair, “Definitely not NiHo’s.” Whiskers set down his cup of tea.

“Something wrong with the tea?” Puddles asked.

“It’s not coffee,” Chuck replied with a smile.

“Chuck is right,” Whiskers answered pointing at the tea, “this is not coffee. Not much is going our way this morning.”

“Whiskers, I’ll contact the client,” Chuck said.

“What will you tell her?”

Chuck paused, “That her…”

“That is where I am stuck. Her husband is dead. However, that is not our concern other than offering our condolences.” Whisker picked up the cup of tea, began to take a sip, thought better and set the cup down.

“He’s dead. Our case is dead. Isn’t it?” Chuck asked.

“Sometimes,” Puddles replied. “She may want to know. That means we need to follow up until we get her answers.”

Chuck shook his head in disbelief. “What about the man with the puppet?”

Puddles sat forward, “I’d like to find him and give him his puppet back,” she finished with a devilish smile, all fang.”

“I too would like to know more about him,” Whiskers said. “However, he is not our concern.”

“After food, I’ll contact the client and set up a meeting,” Puddles said. “By the time we meet she should have the news of her husband from the SCPD.”

A shiny Serv-O droid quietly rolled to the table, depositing bowls of noodles and spoons in front of each of them. Puddles picked up a spoon with two claw tipped digits, “Definitely not NiHos.”

Puddles and Whiskers, Not Any Puppet II

Previously.

Chuck rolled Puddles over, quickly running his paws over her body looking for wounds. She slapped his hands away, “I’m fine.”

“Oh Lovey, you served me well,” the man said tossing the remains of the robopuppet to the ground as he accelerated down the thoroughfare scattering wageslaves.

“Check Amson,” Puddles commanded as she sat up. “Damn that was close.”

Chuck looked over at Amson, “He’s definitely gone.”

“Shit. Where’s Whiskers?”

“He took off after the puppet man.”

“He’s fast,” Whiskers said breathing heavy over comms.

Whiskers ducked underneath the arms of an overburdened wageslave, keeping an eye on the puppet man. Three wageslaves tumbled to the ground in front of Whiskers. With a leap, he cleared all three landing hard, slipping, and falling on his rump.

“Damnit!”

“Where are you at?” Chuck asked.

“Near the taxi pads,” Whiskers replied resuming the chase.

Puppet man swung the case in a low arc taking the legs out from two wageslaves who were too busy with their electronic devices. Both of them tumbled into Whiskers path who used the nearest wall, to wall ran past the wageslaves. Puppet man rounded a corner to the taxi pads, Whiskers heard screams and watched as wageslaves ran away from the taxi pad in a panic. Sliding around the corner, he remembered he left his katana at the office. No need to worry, Puppet man dove into a taxi that immediately flew into traffic.

“He is gone.”

“Gone?” Puddles asked.

“Jumped into a taxi.”

“Damnit.”

“Police are here,” Puddles flatly reported.

“I will be there in a few minutes.”

Out of breath Whiskers jogged back avoiding the knots of wageslaves rubbernecking the scene. Standing over Amson’s body, the SCPD Officer spoke into his com while recording the scene on his tablet. Puddles and Chuck sat to one side waiting. Whiskers sat next to them with a thud.

“What the hell was that all about?” he asked.

“No clue,” Chuck replied. “Officer Chu doesn’t know anything either.”

“No surprise,” Puddles said. “He showed up after the fact. I got his ID so we can get any information the SCPD may find.”

“Great, does he need anything from me?” Whiskers asked between big breaths.

“Not that we know of. He asked us what happened, took our information, and that was that. We only sat here to wait for you.”

With a groan Whiskers stood up and approached Officer Chu. A brief conversation and Whiskers signaled Puddles and Chuck time to leave.

Puddles and Whiskers, Not Any Puppet

Previously.

Not Any Puppet

Leaning against the window of Wake Me Up, Puddles watched wageslaves walk past their eyes downcast. Through the glass of the walkway, she watched mid-morning traffic fly past, more wageslaves onto their jobs. She listened to Chuck place his order through their shared comsystem, chuckling to herself when the coffee dispensing wageslave announced his name as, “Chunk!”

“I thought you said no more chasing cheating spouses,” she said over comms.

“Somethings cannot be helped,” Whiskers replied.

Puddles casually looked around the elevated walkway intersection spotting Whiskers sitting on a observation bench sipping his coffee and reading his ever present tablet. Out of the corner of her vision she spotted Chuck exiting Wake Me Up and heading the opposite direction. Glancing at her skin watch, almost time.

“Anyone spot our target?”

“Not yet,” Whiskers responded quickly.

“I just got into position,” Chuck replied. “I don’t see him.”

“Keep an eye out Chunk,” Puddles teased.

“How hard is their job,” Chuck mumbled.

Chuck wearing his latest wageslave disguise, a tan overall with an accounting firm’s shoulder and breast meme-badge sat down at a table with an excellent view of foot traffic. Pulling out a tablet Chuck shopped while drinking his coffee and keeping an eye out for their target. Instead of their target, Chuck spotted a man erratically walking down the sidewalk, bumping into garbage stations, chairs, and the occasional wageslave causing a commotion as wageslaves attempted to adjust to the disruption.

“Isn’t it a bit early to be drunk?” he asked over comms.

“What?” both Puddles and Whiskers responded.

“There’s this guy…”Chuck trailed off. “What the an’jal is this guy?”

“Something wrong?” Whisker asked.

“No, this drunk is cradling a hand puppet of a bird, talking to it, and bumping into anything that gets in his path. Which seems to be everything.”

“I spotted Amson,” Whiskers cut in. “He is walking towards me wearing a blue suit carrying a black case.”

“I see him,” Puddles responded. Tossing her coffee cup into the trash she started towards Whiskers when she collided with someone. “What the…”

The man who collided with her bounced off her across the walkway scattering wageslaves. His disheveled and mismatched outfit wageslave outfit did not stand out as much as the robopuppet that his left hand was inside.

“Heading your way,” Chuck said.

“Are you okay?” the man asked.

“I’m…”

“Not you!” the man screeched. “Are you okay Lovey?” He asked the robopuppet in a cooing voice that caused Puddles stomach to heave.

Puddles decided the best course was to ignore the man and attempted to walk past to intercept Amson who was crossing the elevated walkway towards her with Whiskers following.

“What’s wrong Lovey?” he asked the robopuppet as it began to screech and caw loudly. Wageslaves avoided the scene with alarming speed. “Did this feline hurt you? What’s that?”

Puddles turned to see what the man was going on about.

“Puddles down he’s got a…”

BOOM BOOM BOOM

On the ground, bits of plastic and metal showered Puddles. Amson, their target fell over his chest and face, what remained of his face, covered in blood. Whiskers dove for cover. Chuck flew overhead, arms outstretched. The man, his left hand in the remains of a robopuppet, stepped over Puddles, grabbed the briefcase and ran past Whiskers.